Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. It was wonderful. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. "He is respited?" "Alas! no," replied Thames, sadly. There was a flash and a loud report.
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